“Override medlock,” I shout. “Triage in progress!”
The team hesitates for half a second—just long enough to look to the lead. Drel’s already moving.
He taps his compad and the emergency hatch opens behind us. “Loss of vitals,” he calls out. “Transport for containment.”
Vael’s eyes flicker once—just for me. Just enough.
I slip the stabilizer under his collar and whisper, “Stay still. We’ve got you.”
Then I press the injector.
His body goes limp.
Around us, chaos simmers. The exercise commanders shout into comms. Techs rush in with gurneys. Smoke curls from one of the blast panels where a minor detonation simulates a misfire. Just enough to draw eyes.
Drel waves over a transport drone. “Containment sequence engaged,” he says, voice perfectly flat. “Subject presumed medically unsalvageable.”
I help lift Vael’s body. Every part of me wants to scream. But my hands are steady.
We strap him down. I press one last check into his pulse—there, faint but real—and give Drel the nod.
The decoy is already prepped in the side chamber. A full Vakutan frame, stripped of identity, rigged to match Vael’s vitals for just long enough to fool the exit scans.
We make the switch in thirty-two seconds.
No one sees.
Not even the tech three feet away with eyes full of panic.
The decoy is carted off toward incineration protocol.
Vael… he’s ghosted.
Off-grid.
Gone.
Dead.
On paper.
I file the report myself. Sign it with a shaking hand. "Dr. Rynn Sorala, Chief Cyberneticist. Loss during exercise. Neural system failure due to overload." Clinical. Clean. Exactly how they want it.
But inside… inside I feel like I’ve just buried a part of myself.
I scrub my hands clean in the sink long after the medbay’s empty. Water scalds my skin, but it’s not enough to burn off the lie.
He’s gone.
But not lost.
Not this time.
We’re just getting started.
I pick up Nessa from school like I always do, but my hands are shaking through the drive. The tram hums beneath us; its steel hull reverberates with each track joint, a low bass tremor in my chest. Nessa’s tongue is flicking out to the side, cleaning melted root-pie from her lip. She glances at me, eyes gold shimmering in station light, and I manage a small smile. “We’ll grab something at the bistro, okay?” I say, voice steady but with falter in the corners.
She nods once. “Can Razorclaw ride in the cart with me?”
